


A Wild, Romantic Ride!

by PerfectlyMarvelous



Category: Persona 5, Persona 5 Royal, Persona Series, Shin Megami Tensei Series
Genre: Betrayal, Character Death, Death of the Author, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gay, Gay Male Character, Gay Panic, Hurt/Comfort, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Meta, Metafiction, Other, Plot, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Surreal, Trauma, things are not as they should be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22591597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerfectlyMarvelous/pseuds/PerfectlyMarvelous
Summary: “I don’t know, like a fated meeting! A handsome detective bumps into you in the middle of a terrible storm, and a romance blossoms.” The stranger giggled. “Have you never heard stories like that?”Goro knew what he was supposed to say; that he’d never so much as seen a gay person in his life, let alone talked to one meaningfully. The very suggestion that he might be one of them was to be chuckled at mournfully with a shake of the head – what was a slender, good-looking young man to do?But the way the stranger looked at him, coy from underneath dramatic eyelashes, was lascivious and electrifying. Goro felt laid bare and infinitely curious. He opened an uncertain mouth and found himself hearing his own voice.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist, will add as more as story progresses
Comments: 26
Kudos: 43





	1. Call It a Prologue

The room is large; boundless. Violet galaxies spill into wine-red nebulas in the far background, and if your feet were planted here you would notice a subtle sheen in front of them, revealing a glass floor. The room is surreal; motes of light hang suspended in the air around you and the heavy fragrance of thought sinks slowly to the ground from a source far above. It condenses into a mauve fog that rolls unhurriedly in rivers along the ground, like the collecting skirts of a queen peacefully writing beauty onto her face with a brush.

Not too far ahead lies a pair of enormous elbow-length silk gloves, large enough to fit someone dozens of times bigger than you. They are the type that has elegance woven into them – a cigarette holder held against pursed lips would not look out of place among their fingers; nor would diamond bracelets around the wrists of their pear-blossom white fabric. They lie against one another, folded neatly. If this was the type of place where dust and dirt were allowed to exist, you might have been able to see, as the purple fog sighed over them, that whoever owned these gloves had not used them in a very long time. That is, if you were here, of course.

And, if you were here, you’d be tempted with the desire to breathe it all in and to breathe it all in again. To lie against the invisible floor and watch maroons become fuchsias become umbers as the stars waltz fondly above you. And if you stayed like that for just a little longer, you might imagine that you hear an impossibly quiet cough an impossible distance away. Well, you’d be right.

There’s a click, and suddenly, ashy asteroids that were rolling disconnected in the sky above shoot to the middle of the room, lining themselves down the infinite length of the area with a twang and bisecting the space. Far, far behind, the first one flares into life with an almost irreverent pop, causing white-hot flames to immediately consume it and illuminate the room below. Very slowly, the next one follows, and then the next, picking up speed with each asteroid that is shocked alive. If you were here, you might be faintly reminded of factory lights stamping out the darkness one by one as electricity begins to pulse through the building, ready for the workday to begin.

There’s no time to contemplate this, however, because the second that the final asteroid lights up an endless distance away, the room below comes alive. The rivers of fog begin to pulse a lively staccato as they roll, and the stars above match its tempo, swaying and spinning with what seems to be anticipation.

Despite being their being in a straight line, the brilliant light from the asteroids far above seems to bend towards the silk gloves, forming a spotlight around them. The world seems to vibrate suddenly, and if you were here, you would sense the collective gasp of delight from the environment resonate inside you as the end of the left-handed glove forms a perfect O of surprise.

Style and strength slide into the glove and give it shape as if a giant, slender, invisible hand had slipped it on with firm determination. Fully awake now, it bends its wrist back and forth, wiggling each finger in a pageantry of stretching to an audience of none. Satisfied, the glove lifts itself up and begins to hover, bobbing above the ground as if on the surface of a quiet sea. The knuckles of the fingers bend so that the fingertips are facing the palm of the glove, and the wrist rears back and twists from left to right, asking a silent question to the space around it. The stars, the fog, the asteroids give the glove an imperceptible, but gleeful reply (encouragement, perhaps?), and the glove makes a quick curtsy with its wrist before floating down to the other, now rumpled glove on the ground. It gingerly lifts the fabric of the forgotten right hand’s opening with a pinched forefinger and thumb in a recognisable “OK” sign. The left hand trembles, as if nervous. If it wasn’t so stately, so elegant, you might have found the exaggerated style of movement was comical.

Silence. A collective breath–

–and a sigh of relief as life flickers and flows into the second glove. It leaps into the air, arcs like a dolphin and swims around its sibling, giving it a high five with a searing clap loud enough to echo in the wall-less environment.

It’s time to begin.

Now moving in unison, both hands bend their wrists back and wave with excitement as they zoom off to a darkened area of the room, powder and glitter forming an almost comet-like trail at the end of the silk. They return just as quickly, clasping an old, leather-bound tome. The right hand somersaults back into the spotlight and makes a cupping shape with its hand. Maintaining the shape, the hand tenses; now in deep focus. After a short pause, it vibrates and begins to glow a bright shade of rose gold. The gathered energy bursts out of the hand with a _pop_ in the form of bright pink spores, propelling it a short distance away. A semi-solid cloud is left behind, imprinted into the space in the same cupped shape as before. The right hand twists around its creation, proudly.

Now with a new lectern, the left hand places the book in its centre, careful not to damage the leather. Imprinted on the cover is the title: “ _Persona 5_ ”, it reads. The hands drum their fingers against the book reverently. Inside, spidery black lettering wraps around the thick bond paper. Seeing the writing, the hands slowly raise and lower their wrists with an awed sigh. They crack each other’s knuckles, ready to begin.

They raise their index fingers, and tense. From the tip of the left hand’s index finger, an exquisite magic spirals towards the page, a shower of sweet, icing-white lettering. The page reacts immediately to the spell cast; every letter that makes contact with the page gives rise to spumes of bubbles from invisible depths that float to the surface and fizz on the page. There is a hushed moment of calm once every piece of the spell has landed. The letters bob and melt into the page like candy cane sailboats in a cream soda ocean. With a papery exhale, the pages of the book seem to relax and gain a viscous, gummy quality as the two-page spread melts into one. This new surface ripples gently, and a welcoming light begins to glow from within. Anticipation hangs in the air, and the hands do not waste any time.

The hands line up from pinkie to elbow and make a cupping shape. They tense, and begin to rub against one another at lightning speed, friction and power building up furiously. Suddenly, a prismatic display of light bursts out of the hands! Trembling with excitement, they peel off of each other and blast off in opposite directions, swerving, soaring and spiralling across the room, creating powdery, glittery trails. As they fly, their open palms catch the stars and motes of light, building up steadily growing hills of space rocks, stardust, and pulsating quasars. The warm beauty of this serene dance could break open the flintiest heart! Ah – the room is dark, now. The hands have collected any trace of light in the room, and the meteorites seem, strangely, to have never been here at all. Weighed down by the heavy light in their still cupped palms, the hands swivel slowly to face each other from opposite ends of the darkness. An imperceptible decision is made, and the hands rocket upwards.

With ever-mounting speed, the still-cupped hands slam into each other at the apex of their flight, eliciting a keen tremble from the tome far, far below. Inside the net of fingers, the combined galaxies of energy mill around each other and pulse in protest against the walls of silk. The hands clasp each other to prevent even a single particle escaping, despite their forearms heaving at the wrist in visible exhaustion. This tremendous force is maintained, and with a heavy, shunting sound, the cupped space collapses in on itself.

A brilliant flash of light blasts the hands open at the wrist like clamshells to reveal a perfect iridescent crystal where before there was none. The hands tremble, energised by their creation - victory is inevitable now. They thunder down, tearing the air to flinders as they scream towards the book; left hand on top, right on the bottom – exactly as they have done for millennia. At the bottom of their arc, they rear back like a pitcher in baseball and hurl the crystal with violent, awful force into the page. The crystal’s tip lodges itself into the gelatine page and roars inexorably forward. For a brief moment, it seems as though the book will reject its entry, but the sheer strength of the blow forces the crystal painfully through the membrane, until with a grating squelch of a ripping sound the crystal tears into the world below and disappears from sight.

Finally done, the hands’ fingers lace together as they hover before the book with apprehension at the slowly suturing wound on the page.

I wonder, I wonder what will happen next!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, welcome to my first fanfiction!
> 
> I've been toying and drafting a narrative for this for an age, and have finally decided to get down to it :) comments/constructive criticism are more than welcome.
> 
> I don't have anyone to proofread for me, so if you spot any grammar mistakes please let me know! 
> 
> I will upload a chapter every Saturday evening at 8 p.m. GMT, starting on Saturday 8th this week.
> 
> -Noé


	2. A Little Excursion

Fat, swollen drops of rain splash like bullets against the old walls of the Shibuya streets. Detective Goro Akechi gritted his teeth, forced to bow further into the wind to even have a hope of passing through. He was cold, and wet, and miserable in the hands of the storm. Bursts of wind shrieked past him, blasting his face with cold. A particularly malicious drop of rain hit him in the eye, forcing him to stop under the faded awning of what might have been a butcher’s shop. He rubbed his eye with a gloved hand, trying to rub away the water. His hair clung uncomfortably to his neck, the same hair he went to such pains to style now a wet brown fleece.

He kept moving forward, and groped for his phone in the pockets of his sodden overcoat; there was no way this he could have missed this in the news this morning. A blurry icon of a sun and the number 19 blink into view against a blue background, but it’s scant comfort for the young man. A better detective would have come prepared. Honestly, what was he even doing out here? No one in their right mind would dare to weather such inauspicious weather. God, even his insides felt wet; he could feel the rain splattering against his bones and filling up his feet like distended balloons from the inside. There was something belligerent about the way the cold fingers of the wind scratched against his skin… if only he could hit back, he thought bitterly. Deep inside him, his heart was in danger of snapping open, letting something twisted spill out. No, Goro Akechi could not remember why he was here at all. He must be heading to the police station, he decided. Only something crucial could summon him on one of his rare days off. His head was pounding, and the rain didn't help. He shook his head, briefly joining his soaked chin to his sodden neck with a stream of vicious water as he tried to remember his current case.

As Goro forced his way forward through the dismal street, the wind began to howl more and more savagely. The buildings shook in terrible apprehension as the young man, bent like a coat hanger against the pressure of the wind, stepped past them. All Goro could see now was the cracked pavement and the absence of the weeds that had been presumably ripped away by the storm.

Liberty road – the police station was close by. The freezing detective rounded the corner and – bumped into someone. Who in their right mind would be out in a storm like this? Before him stood another young man, around the same age, Goro estimated, with a glittering smile and crystal eyes. An almost magnetic air crackled around him. The stranger’s skin was not pale but shone dully with a milky iridescence in the sunlight. Some kind of cosmetic, Goro reckoned. The stranger’s fashion was unusual; like something out of a storybook. Unlike him, the stranger was totally dry. It took Goro several seconds to realise the storm had totally vanished, now replaced by the gentle summer weather promised in this morning’s weather broadcast.

The stranger smiled mirthfully, eyes bright. “Oh, dear! Please excuse me, detective.”

Goro’s manners rushed to catch up with him, “Ah, I think it might have been my fault; it seems I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He took off his sodden glove and extended his hand, oddly eager to touch the oddly dressed youth in front of him. “My name is Goro Akechi; it is a pleasure to meet you. Although”, he paused, “I must assume you knew that already; you called me 'detective' just now.”

“Of course! Who hasn’t heard of the Detective Prince? The pleasure is all mine, I promise.” Rosy lips. The stranger gently placed his hand in Goro’s waiting palm, who felt the sudden and bizarre urge to kneel down and kiss it. Goro swallowed, shook the stranger’s hand as firmly as he could manage, and continued.

“I’m just a rookie detective,” he said easily, “But all the same, thank you. I really am sorry to have barrelled into you like that; I hope you weren’t hurt?” Formalities were friendly territory, a comfortable dance.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, you know. I get the feeling this was supposed to happen.”, said the stranger slyly.

That was unexpected. “How do you mean?”

“I don’t know, like a fated meeting! A handsome detective bumps into you in the middle of a terrible storm, and a romance blossoms.” The stranger giggled. “Have you never heard stories like that?”

Goro knew what he was supposed to say; that he’d never so much as _seen_ a gay person in his life, let alone talked to one meaningfully. The very suggestion that he might be one of them was to be chuckled at mournfully with a shake of the head – what was a slender, good-looking young man to do? Of course, he _is_ in nebulous support of some form of gay rights, because gay people are technically human, and humans should have rights.

But the way the stranger looked at him, coy, from underneath dramatic eyelashes, was lascivious and electrifying. Goro felt laid bare, and infinitely curious. He opened an uncertain mouth and found himself hearing his own voice. “Oh, ah, well, I suppose so.”, he said, scratching at his eyebrow, “Although meetings in stormy weather don’t usually portend a happy ending.” The stranger’s lovely eyebrows shot up, and his mouth curled open, “Oh, I _like_ you!”, he said, taking Goro’s arm, “Come, walk with me.”

This was not an invitation or a command as much as it was a simple statement of fact; Goro and the stranger had begun walking together, back in the direction that Goro had walked from, arm in arm like in an old romance film. Goro considered the always-active alarm bells in his head, but could not hear them ring. He felt at the same time as though his head was swimming and as though he was seeing things more sharply than he ever had as the stranger’s elegant hand sent heady, warming pulses of heat through Goro’s body as it lay against his arm. “ _Is this ok?_ ” thought Goro. He traced a curious finger over the anxious, cold metal of the bells in his mind, and finding nothing wrong, let them fade from his attention, where they disappeared. He returned his attention to the stranger, whose every word seemed to be infused with pith. Goro hung onto all of them, barely registering that people in the street were stopping to stare at the damp detective and his peculiar partner. Goro marvelled at the situation – is this what love felt like? A feeling so overwhelming that one forgot to be scared? He was in awe; to think that something so fully unusual would happen to him on an otherwise banal day… And goodness, such elegant features! Goro ran his eyes down the stranger’s cheekbones and imagined himself running his tongue along the same place.

Wait, what? Goro felt quite dizzy, actually. Tipsy, almost. Had the stranger drugged him somehow? Goro actually snorted at the thought. Someone so beautiful would never have cause to hurt anybody. “Well I simply _must_ ask;”, said the stranger, starry eyes dancing,” What does Japan’s most handsome detective do for fun?” Goro revelled under the weight of the stranger’s interest, and hastily tried to find something that would dazzle him. Didn’t he write a food blog? Ah yes, so he did! “Well,” said Goro, conspiratorially, “I happen to write a blog on the um… _Tokyo’s_ hottest, ah, hotspots. But don’t tell anyone! Only a few of my fans know,” he threw in a wink in there somewhere, thinking it gave him a roguish air that would impress the boy on his arm, “But I know I can trust you because you’re, ahhh, you’re my favourite.” Goro giggled as he said this. _To think someone like me could fall in love!_ , he thought, his mind fizzing. “Oh, _detective!_ ” said the stranger, playfully batting Goro’s arm, ”You really are just as charming as they say.” Goro halted mid-step and held his index finger up to say something crucial. The stranger came to a stop beside him and effortlessly unthreaded his arm from that of the still-soaked youth next to him. “Perhaps,” said Goro, with all the gravitas of a tenured professor, “Perhaps...” he snorted, trying to maintain his composure. “Perhaps I am.” He choked out, before bursting into manic laughter. Surprise turned to joy on the stranger’s face, who began to laugh pleasantly along, evidently delighted.

Goro watched the stranger adoringly, drinking in his elegant features. What a gift it was to be able to make someone so wonderful laugh…! The stranger must have seen Goro’s expression because his charming eyes slanted upwards to give the half-moon above them a wry half-smile.

Night-time? When did it get dark? His cheeks were burning. Goro brought his focus back to the stranger with considerable effort, who now whirled neatly from Goro’s side to directly in front of him. And leaned in close. Heart-poundingly close – scarily close? “Tell me, detective,” said the stranger, his dark, half-moon eyes spilling over his lashes onto the youth in front of him, “Do you believe in destiny?” Goro didn’t know if he did, but it was clear that the right answer was “ _Yes_ ”; so that’s exactly what he said. The stranger exhaled heavily; a sweet sigh; a sexy, smoky breath that enveloped Goro and made his entire body pulse a hot orange.

A smile like sharp red ribbon; a sparkling hand against Goro’s shuddering chest – “ _Won_ derful _”._ Goro’s legs were shaking, he noticed vaguely. The stranger slowly drew a line to Goro’s chin with a solemn finger and held it there. “Because I happen to know that you are in for something spectacular.” Goro felt an arrest of something dismally heavy as old thoughts drilled through his head – of course he didn’t deserve something that, that um, was _spectacular_. He shook his head like a wet dog to rip the memories away. The stranger pursed his perfect lips. “Oh, you mean because of all those deaths?”

What? Goro blanched as the world around him began to shift and melt. How, how could – did he tell the stranger? About what he did? What he did all of it? Papery cackles echoed from the ground around him as he fell to his knees. Murderer; _murderer_. Filth. Shit idiot scum _disgusting murder worthless fucking filth_ sticky, brown blood burst and poured from his eyes and hands and –

“It’s okay.” A beat. What? The stranger smiled benignly and raised his hands to the stars above as if he were taking on the weight of the planets themselves. “Of course I forgive you, sweetness.” Goro burst into tears as he tipped forward and grabbed onto the stranger’s leg for dear life. The saviour’s skirt was magically soft. Ah... Yum. Without much thought, Goro started nuzzling his saviour's skirt, enjoying the feedback from his streaming face as the material hushed his buzzing mind… A lovely giggle rang through the saviour’s ivory throat as he stroked Goro’s wet head – like a pet? “Hush now, detective, and rise.” Goro did as he was told. He swayed, grasping drunkenly at the stranger for help. The saviour placed his sweet, loving hands on Goro’s face and smoothed out the trembling youth’s eyebrows with his thumbs. Goro couldn’t help but sigh, for as he looked into the saviour’s arms a weight vanished from his weary shoulders. There was nothing but warmth. There was nothing but everything. There was only the saviour and him and warmth and this façade of an empty street in the _entire world_.

“I have arranged a fresh start for you, something beautiful. Your old sins will never have mattered in the first place.”

“You’re – you, um. Ah… gon- gonna turn time? Back? I’m – go back?”

The saviour shook his clement head. “Even better, sweetness –” The saviour’s eyes burned like shards of glass inflamed, “You’re going to fall in _love_.” The whole world trembled around Goro, who began weeping once again. What a gift. What a gift – to think. To think he could be saved. To think, to think, to think, to think – his pulsing hands found their way onto the lover’s arms, the fingers at the ends of which were still caressing Goro’s face. Goro was in love, in love.

The universe spun around them. It seemed to Goro that this was the most important moment of his life; his tongue lay thick and dry in his mouth as he clumsily shaped an offering to present the stranger. “I’m uh. I love – ah. Um, I’m uh, in – please don’t leave me – I need you. I need, ah. I – I need you always. Forever.” Surprise! The lover laughed a crystal laugh and took a neat step back. Goro’s hands, at his sides once again, grasped at the air around them like the tendrils on a climbing plant. “Oh, _Darling_! _Not_ with me, you silly thing! It’d never work out between us!” He winked. “Besides, I’m much too old for you, don’t you think?” Goro _didn’t_ think. The saviour looked at most one year older than himself. Illness let its filthy tongues lavish their way down from his shattered head to his toes; he felt like he might die. “Trust me, sweetness – the boy I’m sending in is just perfect for you. He’ll fix your dreary heart, I promise.” Goro could say nothing. His face was totally numb. His hands hung like blocks of concrete from his stony shoulders.

“Well, if that’s all, we shall have to end this little _rendezvous_. I’m delighted to say that you are even better than I realised. Oh – but look at my nails!” With mischief colouring his face, the saviour presented his hands to the dying Goro – ten perfect, lovely fingers – ten perfect, lovely nails like jewels – painted blue. A deep blue. A warm blue. A blue that felt like _home_. Galaxies swam and danced in each and each. Goro was mesmerised. He wished with all his blood that he could jump into those nails and stay there forever. “Don’t you just love the colour? It’s called _Moonlit Magic_! It's my absolute favourite.” Silence. “Well, goodbye, my little love,” said the saviour. He looked kindly down at the devastated detective. “And chin up - true _love_ is just around the corner; you’ll experience beauty like you never have before. It’s a _precious_ gift! From me to you, sweetness.”

With eyes now closed, the saviour tilted his angelic face towards the moonlight and sighed, breathing in the delicious night air. Goro pictured himself tasting the candied tongue in the saviour’s mouth and watching him sigh the same way he was now. The saviour raised his arms towards the sky and began to unravel. The tips of his fingers and the tops of his feet fizzed and began to fall away as golden thread, shimmering in the moonlight and dissipating into nothing. A nacreous, pearly smog remained as the saviour’s decaying form burned white-hot at the edges and continued unspooling itself like a sewing machine possessed. The curious fog kept its shape such that a dense imprint of the saviour’s opal limbs billowed in place. The diffusion sped up as it twisted up and over his shoulders and buttocks, and the saviour opened a single eye to make sure his audience was still rapt.

Goro could not believe his eyes, but then again; Goro could not _believe_ his eyes - his vision was all but totally blurred, eyes darting sluggishly in and out of focus.

The saviour’s smile grew impossibly wider. Deliberately reaching up with a phantom left hand, and with all the panache of a stage magician, he plucked – a single hair from his sterling head, which, ah! – began unwinding as well. Goro swayed, rooted in place, prevented somehow from moving any muscle enough to scream or even vomit, and noticed that where he could see through the smoke into the rapidly vanishing corpse of the saviour, there was nothing but an unyielding blackness.

Soon the final thread of the saviour’s teeth flickered away, and there was nothing but a vague, opaline cloud left behind. Goro could feel his inconsiderate heart falter and lurch. Slowly, slowly – the bottom layers of smog rose to meet the top. Then there was a pause, an infinitesimally tiny pause for the briefest of moments.

Goro felt the last remaining drops of blood pulse under the acrid sheen of his sweating scalp in a lame flush.

Cotton candy skewers took form inside the cloud and lanced through the air, ripping through Goro’s wan nostrils and penetrating his withered lips, through which the cloud funnelled itself with a greedy, wobbling gurgle. Searing acid violated his brain –

Goro blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story begins! I really enjoyed writing this chapter :)
> 
> Please leave a comment and let me know what you think!
> 
> The next chapter will come out on Saturday 15th, at 8 pm GMT.
> 
> -Noé


	3. Conductor's Interlude

The soothing whine of the midday train was scant comfort to a worried Ren Amamiya, who could barely focus on the sunny crops sailing past the little window by his seat. He closed his tired, tear-stained eyes, trying to ignore the rumbling headache in his temples. “The next station is Gotanda.” He felt a limp anxiety settle around his ribs. Three stops left; three more stops before he’d have to face the consequences of his actions.

He tried to tell himself a joke to cheer himself up, but – no, it wasn’t really funny. There was nothing funny about this situation, as much as his life seemed to be an obviously cruel joke.

Ren sighed, and drummed his fingers on the sticky table. Maybe he could take advantage of this; reinvent himself, you know? Really make the most of his new identity as a criminal – eyeliner, chains, smoking, the whole thing. He could, ah, introduce himself as Fang, or Saber, and totally refuse to respond to anyone calling him by his actual name. Maybe he could start wearing a cape or something… no, shit - that would be lame. “Stupid idea.”, Ren muttered, scratching forlornly at an angry pimple on his nose. Still, reinvention could be cool. He could be one of those careless guys, the fun guy people like being around. He could make friends, too. It could be nice.

But his mug shot had been in the papers for more than a week now, and it probably wouldn’t have stopped either if his mother hadn’t complained to the Yomiuri Shimbun. Ren sighed again and slumped, letting his greasy hair hit the browning cloth of the seat behind him. He should probably just give up on the idea now… no one wants to make friends with someone who beats women.

Oh, well. It wasn’t like he had expected life to get any easier – nothing for it but to keep on keeping on, Ren supposed. Had he read that somewhere? Maybe he should google some motivational quotes or something. Noticing the grime on his fingers, Ren frowned, and lazily wiped his hand on his trousers. They were a birthday present from his mum.

“I wonder”, thought Ren, “If I could turn back time, what would I do differently?” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, concluding that he probably wouldn’t have gone for lunch _that_ day – indeed, that seemed to be the point where absolutely everything went wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No matter how you slice it, the story demanded that this chapter be short. Enjoy this little palate cleanser; the next one's going to be heavy.
> 
> Look out for it on Saturday, 22nd of February - 8pm GMT as before.
> 
> Let me know what you think happened at lunch that sent Ren's life down the wayside! I'd love to hear from you :)
> 
> If you behave AND make sure to eat your vegebles... i might just post the next chapter a couple days down the line... wii will c.
> 
> -Noé


	4. A Mother's Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Abuse, homophobia, and slurs. 
> 
> I won't lie, guys; this chapter was particularly difficult to write. I ask you to respect this writing as a work that does not delight in abuse for the sake of shocking its audience, but rather as a way to explore trauma and the humanity of its characters. 
> 
> If you think this chapter was tasteless or egregiously done, I am very happy to listen to what you have to say - this is my first real writing project, and I'm looking to grow - as long as your comments are civil and promote useful discourse of the subjects at hand.
> 
> That being said, dig in! I worked hard on this chapter and enjoyed experimenting with imagery to make the scene as vivid as possible.

“ _Come to the Yoshinoya. Your sister and I are having lunch_.”, read the text. Ren’s stomach sank. He wondered what his mother wanted from him; it’s not like she was his best friend or anything. He knew, though, that there was no sense in arguing, and bid a mournful goodbye to _Just Dance_. Nelly Furtado would be there when he got back.

Ren identified his little sister’s big hoop earrings at the back of the restaurant as he stepped in. They were pretty tacky. His mother wrinkled her nose when he sat down across from her. “You reek. Did you shower today?” Ren looked down and said something or other. “I ordered you some ramen.”  
“Ah, um, thanks.” She seemed to wait to hear something more, then promptly forgot about him as she set about her food. Ren ate slowly, focussing on the mechanics of lifting the spoon from the bowl to his mouth and letting the meaty broth pool underneath his tongue.

“I’m going to the toilet.”, said his sister abruptly. Well, that was fine. She wasn’t his best friend, either. His mother leaned in ever so slightly, turning her attention to Ren. “Well?”

“Well, what?”  
“How are your studies?”

They were going terribly, but Ren knew this question well enough to give a satisfactory answer: “Oh, well, you know, I’ve just been focussing really hard on starting the year effectively, and getting a head start so I can be organised and stuff.” His mother gave a little nod – this was the correct response. She turned towards the big glass window at the front of the restaurant and drank from her wine, watching people mill around outside. The weather had been miserable all day, and so had been the walk down to the restaurant.

Ren finished the dregs of his food sorrowfully, and scratched at his hands, unsure of what to do next. Without her turning, his mother’s voice presented itself quite suddenly. “Ren?”

“Ah, yes?  
“Has anyone new caught your eye yet?”

What was he supposed to say? “Not since you asked me yesterday, mum.”, Ren replied wearily. She whipped around to face him and set her drink down on the table. “Don’t disrespect me, boy.”

“Sorry, mum.” Well, it was _true_. His mother pursed her lips, and tilted her neck in a slow circle like her head was a glass of wine that needed airing. “Why don’t you have a crush on anybody?”

What? This was unusual. Ren had an answer, of course, but it was one he imagined he would share decades from now, if not after her death. He looked around himself in a quiet panic but of course, no help came. Was he ready to uncork himself? Was he ready to spill out everything in a _Yoshinoya_? Anguish gripped him. He felt like he might burst. He hated himself. He was so tired; exhausted, even, and frankly, way too young for this. “Ren?”

“Oh, ah, yeah.” He was surprised at how small his voice sounded. “You have to promise you won’t get mad.”  
“What? I’m not making a promise about something I haven’t heard.”  
“Okay, well. I think that, um – I think I’m gay.”

His mother said absolutely nothing, her controlled mouth refusing to unpurse as she took a long breath and turned to the window once again. She took another sip of her wine.

 _Shit_. A cold lance of fear punctured Ren’s chest as he realised exactly what he had done, and the awful, awful balloon of hope he wore around his neck shrieked and deflated with a terrible burbling mucousy sound, like the lungs of a woman abandoned clinging onto her last breath. _Shit_. _Shit_. _No_. Ren felt quite dizzy; his bloodless hands clasped at the table. Just then, his sister returned from her pilgrimage to the toilet. Had she re-done her makeup? What took her so long? Her lips were that same tawdry purple as usual; a masterpiece of cheapo lip gloss from a magazine for tween girls who think they know everything.

Through the fog of panic, Ren felt it was quite selfish for his sister to have taken so long – if it wasn’t for her, he wouldn’t have sold himself out. His sister flipped her side ponytail over her shoulder with a thoughtless twirl of her little hand and began nonchalantly wolfing down the rest of her meal. Well, she would’ve done, if it wasn’t for their mother rapping her hand on the table – _hard_ : “Put down that fork. We’re going home.” His sister’s eyes narrowed, “What about my food? I’m obviously not done.”

“We’re going home, Mitsuko.”  
A pause.  
“Fine, whatever.”  
Ren said nothing.

The drive home was short and unremarkable. What else is there to say? His mum clearly didn’t think there was anything worth mentioning at the wheel, and his sister was tapping away at her phone. Ren envied her ignorance, sometimes. _Shit_.

“Sweetie, why don’t you go watch some TV?” His sister beamed. “Thanks, mum!”

Home already? Ah; ah. _Shit_.

His mother locked the door and walked ahead, her gait a fact of life; no more unyielding than the possibility of rain, nor less so than the simple existence of sorrow. Hands clasped, head held high; his mother stepped into the darkened dining room – and Ren followed.

The thing that stuck out the most in that grim greyish wasteland of the living room were his mother’s eyes, hovering incandescent all the way above the other end of the sofa. She invited her son to sit down. Ren acquiesced. A faintly old-smelling purplish mist drizzled languidly in through the pores in the walls and rolled over the naked landscape of furniture and rugs. “Well,”, said his mother; “Say it.”

“I don’t know what you mean –”  
“ _Don’t_ make me say it for you.”

The walls seemed to be farther away than when he sat down. She was right, of course; Ren drew his honour around him like a mantle and presented his voice to her: “I’m – I’m gay.”

“No, you aren’t.”  
What?  
“Um, yeah. I am.”

His mother rolled her wine glass around in her hand – one that Ren hadn’t noticed her holding – and swilled the dark, thick liquid around. It left griseous trails against the dusty walls of the drinking glass. “No,”, she snorted, “You are not. You think I don’t know you? You’ve been attracted to girls your whole life.”

“Mum, I really am gay.” He hadn’t meant to be dishonest; his mother’s heavy, prodding questions could only ever elicit vague, drifting comments about some girl or other.

“Oh, really? And Haruka?”

“Mum, that was 5 years ago…”, he trailed off. “I thought I liked her, I – I don’t know.”

His mother’s expression soured. Ren became aware of the couch heaving minutely and trembling vaguely every time his lungs flushed out air. His mother’s torso tilted up and out, moving not unlike a snake. “You mean you’ve been _lying to me all this time_?”

Ren said nothing.

“Maybe because you hate your mother now, you want to act out – isn’t that right? You couldn’t think of anything better to do? Which one of your _fag_ friends told you this was cool? You’re ridiculous.”

Ren closed his eyes, sighing into himself and feeling very much as though his innards were being slowly snipped and excavated from his abdomen. When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the greasy particles of smog dipping more thickly into the room. The mist worked to obscure his vision, but Ren could see how the carpet snaked out and away in multiple directions from the sofa, like fingers trying desperately to grow away from a necrotic hand. His mother raised a dark eyebrow from the other end of the sofa, her eyes burning through the mist. She had asked him a question.

“Oh, um, no-one _told_ me to be this, mum. I think it’s just bad luck.” Ren decided to try a different tack, and summoned a swallow to fly to her through the mist. “I mean; it could be worse; I could be a terrorist or something.” The bird disappeared into the bruised, purple shadows. He could no longer see his mother.

“Right, mum?”

Her voice drifted towards him, echoing from nowhere in particular: “I do-on’t kno-w… you te-ell me?” The dry, oily dust slippered over Ren's face and eyes. His ashen cheeks, which he could no longer quite feel, were thankful for the distraction. “Obviously being a terrorist is worse –”

“So, I presume you’ll be dressing in women’s clothing now?”  
“Oh no, mum, you know _awful_ people do that…”

All he heard in response was a viscid gurgle and the fleshy creak of a swallowing throat – she was drinking her wine. Cold sweat began to bead through the spongy meat of the couch beneath him. Like something fetid coming to fruit, the skin of the sofa in between Ren's legs split open. A foul odour emanated from this new mouth, as did a familiar voice – it was impossible to see how deep the hole went, but it was clear that every time the voice bounced against its throaty walls it became further tainted. It slithered wetly into Ren's ear, sending a chill down his spine. “ _Your father is going to blame me_.”

Ren felt faint. “Mum, please don’t tell dad! He’d kill me! You know he –” before he could say anything else, a groaning heave churred through the hole between his legs and a fat, wet, discoloured tongue slammed against his thighs, scraping heavily and deliberately towards his –

Ren leapt up, petrified. Dropping his father’s name was _not_ a good sign. Wait, when was he coming home from work? Ren had no time to plan for this, however, as through the leering darkness came screeching a pair of desiccated, fungus covered claws that pierced through the sallow fat of his body and pinned him to the wall; a wretched spectacle of limbs.

Ren couldn’t fully make out the shape of what attacked him, and he was grateful for it. All around him, his mother’s voice screamed like a terrible gale. “You disgusting slut. You are abhorrent, pathetic; you think you can punish me by acting this way?” The claws dug deeper. Ren struggled to speak, numbly shocked from the panic of claws raking into his ribs. “It’s not a punishment, mummy, I promise; just, _please_ , I’m trying to share something important with you. Listen, I’m gay, but I promise that doesn’t change who I am; I’m still Ren. All it means is that I’m attracted to boys.”

The world stopped moving.

“Sexually?”  
“Well, yeah, I guess.”

Every mote of dust hung suspended in the air, trembling in place.

“I see.”

And just like that, Ren was back on the couch in the living room he’d known for years with his mother; his _mother_. She was intense, volatile, and passionate, but Ren knew she must love him; after all, she had often said so. With this in mind, Ren was able to breathe out a shaky, sour sigh of tentative relief as his mother took out her phone. It wasn’t impossible that she’d have a meeting or something like that. Ren couldn’t wait until he was released from this awful conversation but felt quietly glad all the same to be able to unburden himself of a lifelong haunting. He noticed his mother pressing the ‘volume up’ button on her phone and holding it there.

She typed something in and tapped the screen, looking coldly at her son.

She turned the phone towards him. Ren blanched.

“ _rawgaypornos4u.com_ ”.

She clicked on whatever video; it didn’t matter which one.

Ren was assaulted by a cinema of knotted limbs; shuddering, roiling skin; and thoughtless, groping fingers, accompanied by an orchestra of animalistic grunts and sweaty mewls. His mother’s mouth was pursed shut, but her eyes split him open. “ _This is what you are. This is all you are. This is all you’ll ever be. Slut, deviant, aberration; I see you_.”

What was Ren supposed to do? How was he supposed to act? What was he supposed to say? He was as good as a child; he had done all he could. He began to bawl. Sticky globs of snot decorated his twisting, blotchy face. “Mummy, I just want you to _love_ me,”, he choked out, sobbing into his hands. “Don’t give me that bullshit, Ren.”, his mother hissed, underscored by the violent, throbbing sex in her hand. Ren had never felt more disgusting in his life. His private, permanent shame lay exposed all around him, leaving him stripped naked and bare as he wept; there was nothing left to hide.

Some vague, final vestige of self-preservation urged him quietly to just go, and reclaim whatever sense of himself there was left. As he went to shakily stand, however, came the words: “Go _anywhere_ and I’m telling your father.” So Ren dropped numbly down and simply cried, cried until the video was finished, cried until the phone was turned off, cried until his mother left the room and closed the door.

A part of Ren died that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I did warn you it was going to get heavy. 
> 
> What did you think? I hope this gives you some clarity on what kind of character the protagonist is and the kind of thing he will be wrestling with as we lead him towards romance. 
> 
> (Yes, I'm posting this about 5 hours early; I have somewhere to be this evening, unfortunately!)
> 
> Next chapter will come, as always, at 8pm GMT on Saturday. See you then!
> 
> -Noé


	5. Thoughtforms and Nightfume

The prettiest tears are born at night.

At the bottom of the sea, in my rolling carriage of skin  
I crush up these newly born tears into a powder and blow it onto my face, revelling  
In the nightfume.

(Every tragedy needs an audience)

Ladies; it’s time!  
Huff it in, and feel  
How electric  
How unlike you   
You become when you’re glitteringly sad.

I slip a clammy hand down my spongy, fleshy throat; wiggling through my gullet and into my stomach where among the rolling waves of chyme the grey fingers pry open an old metal lockbox. There’s no time to hesitate. The hand hooks onto an old name, one that’s barely familiar - but just as good as any. Like rubber, I slither out of myself, the name wiped clean by the pressing tubes of my form.

I pin the name very carefully to the front of my shirt; just below the ribbon.

Now you know _exactly_ who I am!

I open the carriage door and sink into the sand, surrounded by a swaying, swooning algal mass of strangers. 

They call me to them; I dance for them all.  
There’s no shame here.

My Prince! You stand in the throng of strangers, beckoning me towards you.  
It’s so thrilling to be loved!  
I drift towards you, your coral pink smile opening wide.

My _handsome_ Prince!  
I could die for you, if you would just let me.  
Please, please - ah, your skin is wonderfully smooth…

My _charming_ Prince!   
I would do anything for you.  
Your hair is so beautiful… look at how it drifts and shines in the dark light.

My _radiant_ Prince!  
Take me into your broad arms, lay me on the soft sea-grass and  
Fuck me into the dirt;   
Fuck my open wounds until they bleed. 

Let’s see what sweet creatures bloom from my tepid caverns.

* * *

Ren did not sleep well that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, fellas!
> 
> I apologise for not keeping my commitment to upload a chapter every Saturday - I will do better. 
> 
> It's not a progression of the story, but I found myself thinking about the kind of thing Akira might dream about after a traumatic experience like the one detailed in the previous chapter. The above poem is an exploration of that; I hope you like it!
> 
> The poem is very abstract, but it definitely contains hints to how Ren is feeling and what's going to happen in the next chapter!
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think, whether it's what you think might happen next or your thoughts on the language/imagery used in this chapter.
> 
> The next chapter will be uploaded on Saturday, at 8pm GMT - I promise it'll be there.
> 
> See you then!
> 
> -Noé


	6. The Great Escape

_I could die for you, if you would just let me–_

Ren started, groggily reaching for the phone on his nightstand. His hand groped the relief of debris on the filmy wooden surface, hoping for a result. Where did he put his glasses? He needed them. Y’know; to _see_.

His heart dropped right through his discoloured mattress, punching a hole through the layers of sweat. _Shit_. That conversation was real. His mother really did say all those awful, awful things. Ren realised that he felt quite numb about the whole affair, excepting a film of anxiety that had settled on the walls of his stomach. He explored the shape of the memories; they were cool to the touch but far too bulky to sit comfortably in his head; they floated arthritically, like plastic ice cubes in an old mocktail.

Ren allowed a shaky sigh to escape. His head hurt in weird places. Oh! He was _wearing_ his glasses. _Nice one, asshole_ , he snorted. What was the time? He gawped blearily at his phone, which had been in – ah, his pocket. The blue screen told him very gently that it was 8 pm.

Ren’s father would be home in two hours. 2 hours until his life, presumably, would be cut all the way short. He had no gauge for this, no way to predict a result. He had thought his mother an ally, only to find a stranger in her. No, there was no one to rely on here. Yes – ultimately, all he had was himself, and _now was the time to become ok with that_. Ren took a deep breath, tamping everything comfortably down. It was time, therefore, to make a plan.

Assuming the absolute worst, as one must when planning for a disaster, he would be killed as punishment for being – well, for being gay. This punishment did not fit the crime; which Ren thought was totally infuriating. Appeals to his mother were out of the question; his pride had been ground down to the nubs and was pulsing raw. Bootlicking was not to be tolerated.

An idea sank coyly onto Ren’s head and nestled in his hair like a halo – what if… what if he actually did commit a crime that were to fit the punishment he was about to receive? _Ah_. Like a final act of defiance? If nothing else, it would be proof whether or not he was caught that Ren Amamiya was not a person who could be broken. Yes, this was an excellent idea.

In all likelihood, his captors were going to crack down on surveillance. Ren had never had a boyfriend – or any male friends at all, really, and the possibility of that happening in the future was fast approaching zero to none.

If he wanted a gay escapade, he’d have to set off now; there was a gay bar in town around half an hour away. Ren forced out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding – no time to waste, then. Ren stripped, changed, and brushed his hair. Rebellion made him shine dangerously, like a sharp new milk tooth. No one was going to stop him; no one could _ever_ stop him.

Ren was ready – all that was left to do was, well, leave. Ren paused in front of his bedroom door, vacillating in his defiance. Well, shit. What else did he have left? Ren slunk through the amber-lit corridor, avoiding his mother’s lair, and tiptoed down the stairs. Stealing through the bowels of his house – not to mention his mother’s liquor cabinet – Ren’s great escape was announced to the fanfare and alarum of a softly clicking lock.

Wow! High on life, and stupidly expensive pinot noir (he presumed), Ren’s wine-stained lips soared and strained at their corners. The bar was in rather a seedy area of town, but Ren wasn’t worried about that – he knew well enough to keep to the shadows, even with alcohol in hand. He was giddy thinking about the guys he would meet; he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d meet somebody really handsome! Someone with kind eyes, gentle hands; a good dancer! Oh, the bar attendees had no idea what they were in for; Ren’s dance moves were sure to catch everyone’s eye – not that he wanted to be the centre of attention. Newly 18, Ren was quite content to observe and learn the rules of the unfamiliar environment; it was his first time, after all.

Ren polished off the last of the wine, silently extending a thank you to the winking heavens above for the huge lunch he had been bought that day. Bright, tawdry lightbulbs welcomed him warmly as he approached the gay section of town. Goodness, what a place to be! Ren felt strange – happy, maybe? There was something comforting about the bruising purple lights that streamed down onto the streets below. There was nothing he needed to hide here, and rolls of high, low laughter lured Ren towards his tentative prize. Dawdling around the corner from his destination – _Dreamland_ , it was called – Ren mused on the glancing, cavernous fear that had stopped him from seeking excitement like this before. It was depressing, kind of… if he’d had the balls to look for joy, for adventure in places like these, he might have a boyfriend already! He could have had someone to rely on, someone to take care of him, someone to run to and grasp for dear life when things got rough instead of keeping everything bottled in. God, that was a miserable thought. He was never going to be happy, not now that his mum turned out to be a huge fucking bitch. Ren hated her, to be honest. What a bitch, what a shitty mum…

But there was no time to waste! Ren shucked himself from the mire of his emotions, braced his mind, and strode with purpose to the front door of _Dreamland_ , the vibrant pink sign above which intimated an evening he could retreat to when the going got _rough_.

A thin, big-lipped blond with watery orbs for eyes took his passport – he hadn’t gotten around to getting his driver’s license – and gave it the once over? “I haven’t seen you before; you new here?” came the soft alloy of a voice. Ren couldn’t quite tell if it was being put on, or if it had been forced into that shape long ago.

“Oh, um, something like that.”

Something indistinguishable shadowed the blond’s face, but it passed in an instant. “Well”, he yawned, lazily stretching, “Go on, then. I have work to do.”

“Oh! Yep! Sorry!” Ren stepped lightly inside.

It was smaller than Ren thought it would be, and smokier, too. The languid magenta lighting licked over Ren’s face and body as the sounds and scents of _Dreamland_ slipped over his tongue and ears. The music was so loud you could barely hear the hyped up chatter of the men around him. It made his skin tremble. Ren wrinkled his nose, and not just because of the stale smell – this stuff was the kind of thing his kid sister listened to; poppy, junky, and twee. Was this music actually popular? Ren noticed various eyes peering at him from the shadows so he retreated to a corner and began to observe. He saw:

  * Rucks of paunchy men with yellow-glazed eyes swivelling their heads like searchlights, all with a bottle of beer in hand, all filled to the same level.



  * A few skinny twinks flirting disinteredly with the hurried, harried looking bartender.



  * One very, very tall fellow – lanky, with a big beak nose and a cropped shirt – flailing his arms wildly and dropping to the floor like his life depended on it.
  * This one must be in heat, thought Ren.



  * An old, toothless looking man standing by the back wall – not doing anything, just drinking quietly.



  * A couple, arms and tongues entwined, leering mutually at each other through their tunnelling mouths. One of them was wearing tiny cut off jean shorts.
  * Ren didn’t understand this one. If he already had a boyfriend, why show everyone else your full ass?
  * He had probably met his beau that same night.
  * Ah, well, good for him.
  * Oops.



Ren turned away, embarrassed. He felt desperately like he was witnessing something he shouldn’t, like a zoologist at an animal orgy. This was so frustrating. He had spent months dithering – should he, shouldn’t he, should he, shouldn’t he – circling the same idea like a turd vacillating around the toilet bowl, praying dreadfully that his life would change the second he gathered the courage to just radically transform his entire life. And yet here he was, still alone, still unhappy, and still too plain to even be groped. Grasping at straws, he turned on his phone with the vague hope of cellular salvation.

_3 unread message(s) from MUM:_

8:35 p.m. – _Where are you? I didn’t give you permission to go out._

9:16 p.m. – _Your father is here. Come home – now._

9:33 p.m. – _I don’t know what it is you think you are doing, but I’m not impressed. Call me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all,
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter :)
> 
> -Noé


	7. Fresh Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Sexual Assault
> 
> I ask you to respect this writing as a work that does not delight in abuse for the sake of shocking its audience, but rather as a way to explore trauma and the humanity of its characters.
> 
> If you think this chapter was tasteless or egregiously done, I am very happy to listen to what you have to say - this is my first real writing project, and I'm looking to grow - as long as your comments are civil and promote useful discourse of the subjects at hand.
> 
> That being said, dig in!

“Heya.” Ren looked up from his phone, face scrunched up as if he thought he might find a solution in the nooks and crannies of his skin.

In front of him stood two beautiful girls, shimmering gaily in their short, powdery dresses. Their faces were dusted with bold golds and pretty pinks, and as they gazed at the doleful youth in front of them, sweet concern dappled their features, too. “Are you ok, honey? You look so sad sitting there all on your own!”

Ren felt their warmth instantly and was beguiled. He wanted very much to be honest with them, to tell them that he’d never so much as kissed a boy before, that he was terrified, that his parents were monsters – but it’s not like he wanted to look pathetic, so he shucked the truth: “It’s my first time here; I can’t go home tonight.”

The girls clapped their hands, delighted, “Oh, sweetie, you can hang with us! We come here all the time!” Ren wasn’t quite sure who said that, as they both bobbed and swayed on the surface of the music blasting around them, but found it quite charming the way they sculpted the word ‘all’ to be twice, no – three times its usual length. Unusual things could happen in places like these, he supposed.

The girls took him by the hand and guided him to a brighter area of the bar where the light coloured him with a metallic blue. A unit now, a trio; they joined another pair of strangers chattering lowly on the dance floor – a gothic-looking girl, all chokers and combat boots guffawing in response to something evidently witty said by her conversation partner. Ren looked at him, and blushed; the boy had nice arms. They made their introductions (although Ren was quite embarrassed not to have understood the boy’s heavy accent), and the girls who led him there whooped and cheered for the new introduction to their band of thieves.

“Let’s do _shots!_ ”, they exclaimed. Ren’s new gang seemed to agree with this proposition, so he nodded; this was the safest place to be given the unfamiliarity of the environment. Stories of murders and whatever else buzzed on his brain. But, ah – “Um, I don’t have much money with me…”

“Don’t even! It’s so on us!” This time, it was ‘so’ that swelled under the girls’ attention. They sailed to the bar; Ren chose to stay with the other two in the corner where it was comfortable. He made a couple of jokes he was pretty sure they heard, and they had a good time nodding to the loud beat. As he listened to nice arms boy mumble something totally incomprehensible, the goth girl tapped Ren’s shoulder, gesturing towards the girls at the bar. “Blue shit or filthy cunt?” The holler wafted down across the floor, but no-one seemed to be bothered by it. Also, what? Was that supposed to be code for something?

His confusion must have been evident because the goth girl snorted. “They’re asking what kind of shot you want, doofus. You really are a baby, huh?”, she said, though not really unkindly. Gosh, what a choice – blue shit or filthy cunt? He settled on blue shit, thinking back to how he used to eat the dirt at the beach when he was young and his parents still took him to the seaside. Ren had never had an STI, but he was cautious enough not to stick his tongue in any cunt that self-identified as, well, _filthy_. So – “Ah, one blue shit for me, please.” The girls whooped, and Ren was warmed.

A few rounds of acrid and admittedly sugary delicious shots later, they were all in a circle on the dance floor. Ren was busting out his best dances, tipsy enough now to _really_ enjoy himself. What a great place, he thought. He had finally found people he could connect with; this was exactly where he was supposed to be. He stretched and unleashed the moves from Nelly’s _Maneater_ , which involved cracking an imagined whip and dragging in a presumably willing prey. People whistled! Ren could eat men. Ren could eat the shit out of a bunch of men if he wanted.

This was most certainly Ren’s first mistake – his alertness, his sense of self-preservation; it had been lost at the bottom of a blue-stained shot glass in the zaftig gay bar bagarot. It was no wonder, then, that Ren didn’t hear a thing as heaving, fungified footsteps heralded the beginning of a violation. Now, the threat didn’t make a beeline for Ren and his posse – why would it? It didn’t even _see_ them at the start. Instead, it paddled and waohed through the waters of _Dreamland_ , ordering a drink – a filthy cunt, it should be noted – tipping the bartender, and dipping leisurely under the surface to glance for any pearls rolling through the sporange.

The minutes tinted the water as they sank into the sand, and Ren had shed his worries and toes. He was porous as the corals, letting the chorus of roars pour through him – that sweet celebration of life that made him feel young once more. Ren thought he might feel brave enough to lay a hand on nice arm boy’s waist and wordlessly invite him to dance a little closer. The night was right for that, he thought; unusual things can happen in places like these.

But then a shuffling swat made itself known in Ren’s little circle. The threat that Ren had failed to notice forcing its way into _Dreamland_ had sidled up behind the goth girl and rapped her behind, damp fingers grabbing wetly at the cloth of her seat.

She whipped around immediately, suddenly sober and very angry. “Don’t _touch_ me, asshole!”

“Calm down, babes, it’s a compliment.” The man was very large; bulky muscles rippled smugly down at the girl.

“Grabbing a random girl’s ass is not a compliment.” She poked her bony finger angrily into his chest.

The man bristled at this. “You’re a right cunt, aren’t you? That time of the month, is it?”

She was about to spit something right back at the awful man when Ren stepped in, strong-arming through the haze of alcohol to put a hand on her shoulder, “Why don’t we go outside for a while? It’s getting really warm in here.”

The current of her anger swivelled towards Ren, as did she. “What? No! He can’t just do that; you don’t just molest a stranger like it’s nothing, I – That’s my _body_!”

Ren kept his voice level as he lowered it enough so only she could hear it, “I know; I really, really hear you. All the same, provoking the massive drunk asshole is not going to help our situation. C’mon; let’s get some fresh air.”

It was only now that Ren felt she could see quite how huge the creep was, and she gritted her teeth. Goth girl flipped her middle finger up at the man as a last act of defiance and slunk towards the smoking area. Ren shepherded the two powdery girls in the same direction and the nice arms boy followed shortly behind, leaving a trail of worried looks like breadcrumbs behind him. Despite the calm the situation required him to wear, Ren was seething. The injustice of someone harming others for simple mindless pleasure and getting away with it because they were bigger, stronger; it was infuriating.

The smoking area was unusual in that it was more like a wide path squirming in the vague shape of the letter Z, the entrance of which began at the lower tip of the letter. This was owed to the location of the bar, which was such that the smoking area was intruded upon by apartment buildings on the right and a twisting, waggling road on the left.

Ren guided the party as far away from the bar to make sure they were all quite safe; this ended up being the far tip of the letter Z. Ren felt relieved to have resolved a potentially catastrophic situation, even though this stretch of the path was quite grimy, actually.

He saw used condoms and empty bottles the size of a pinkie finger labelled “room odouriser” (Ren wasn’t stupid; these were obviously drugs) littered all over the floor. The smell wasn’t pleasant either, somehow simultaneously sweet and acrid. He snuck a look at the goth girl, who smiled wryly at him; it was clear she knew what this place was for. Oh, well – at least they were alone.

They all quietly enjoyed a moment of pause as the girls huddled up against the back wall and tried to light up cigarettes. Ren wrinkled his nose and moved away to the side of the path to avoid the smoke. Nice arms boy began to follow slowly behind. Well, that was unexpected… perhaps Ren’s heroism had earned him an admirer. How old was he, anyway?

What Ren had unfortunately failed to notice was that they had been followed – worse; they had been cornered.

“Who the _fuck_ do you think you are?” The man was screaming, belligerent as he lumbered into their little alley. The powdery girls started from the loud noise and drew a white-faced breath when they realised who it was. The goth girl gave no external reaction but sucked hard on her cigarette. The boys were silent; the man’s attention was not focussed on the weedy satellites standing to one side.

He advanced on the girls, only a few metres away now. “This is _my_ fucking bar. You think you’re clever, fucking me off like that? It’s been _years_ since I’ve come here; I do what I like.”

He punctuated his words with violent hand gestures that made the young women tremble against the damp brick wall. It felt terribly cold all of a sudden. The goth girl opened her mouth to speak, and yet – “Shut it. You’re an ugly fucking _whore_. You’re lucky to even be _looked_ at by me, and you turn me down? Unbe- _fucking_ -lievable.” His voice was hoarse; loud.

But she would not be silenced: “You are vile. I wouldn’t let you and your teeny-tiny dick near me if it would save my life. Pig.”

This enraged the man. “Fuck you! You stupid fucking cunt. Maybe I should have my way with you right now, huh? Fuck you against the wall here, yeah? Doesn’t matter since you already ruined my life, does it, slag?”

A look of horror permeated her features as the man stomped towards the goth girl, whose pale hands clung to the cold wall. A whimper escaped from her clenched jaws, a strained, quailing sound that triggered terrible sobs from the powdery girls. They clung to her arms.

“And you two – shut your fucking traps and piss off if you don’t want your faces bashed in.” Ren fathomed he could feel the heat from the man’s body charring his cheeks as he coughed past Ren. The girls’ cries turned into quiet, gulping gasps, but they did not move. Ren wondered if they were unable to do so; his own feet felt rooted to the ground below him. Somebody had to help, to do something – anything! He turned silently to the boy next to him, who was frozen in place.

And the man moved still closer to the girls. Ren to help desperately, desperately. It was his own fault for isolating them so far from safety. But the man was terrifying, and Ren was paralysed… _Shit. Fuck._ What, if anything, could Ren do?

Nothing. Ren did nothing. He stood there motionless with his brain frantically whirring – maybe, maybe when the man was distracted he could run and get the bartenders, or call the emergency police line, or – but as the beast went to grab the goth girl by the jaw he was tackled to the ground by a man in a black with the word ‘SECURITY’ emblazoned in white letters on his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! It was particularly difficult to write; I wanted very much to spend time setting Ren up as a canny character with strong moral values, albeit one who is naïf and has a tendency to overthink.
> 
> I also wanted to portray the sexual assault of the gothic girl as more than just the standard plot point unfortunately prevalent in media where 'women are seldom characters in their own right, and if their pain is ever recognisable, then it’s invariably as a metaphor for something else' (https://bit.ly/3a06JSG - this was a very interesting read; I'd recommend it for when you have the time).
> 
> You may also have noticed that a couple of the words I used do not exist. Yeah, I'm that kind of writer now. I don't know what to tell you. 
> 
> Zaftig - from the German word meaning full-figured or voluptuous  
> Bagarot - from the old French word meaning noise/uproar  
> Waohed - A word of no particular origin that means relaxed, leisurely drifting around an area.
> 
> As of now, every chapter will have the definitions in the notes at the bottom of every chapter.
> 
> Lastly, I would like to apologise for the delay in uploading this chapter - I made a promise that the chapter would come out on a certain day at a certain time and I did not keep it. It's unlike me to break promises I've made.
> 
> I'm sorry!
> 
> This whole global health situation has been an absolute mess, and I have not been well. I also allowed trying to figure out my university's virtual seminars and moving to somewhere safer during this crisis (not to mention other responsibilities) to take over my life.
> 
> The chapter is out now because things are finally stabilising and I have begun to carve out a routine to get things in order; I have a lot more time and energy to write. I would have liked to let readers know what I've been up to (or even that I'm still alive), but I didn't know of any way to do that other than adding a chapter to the story; I didn't want to do this since I thought people might be disappointed to get a notification only to find out that nothing had been uploaded! I wonder if I should get a tumblr...
> 
> I will not promise a regular upload schedule yet, as things are still up in the air. I will take things on a chapter by chapter basis. All the same though, I want to challenge myself; The next upload will be out come rain or shine by 8 pm GMT on Saturday, 18th of April.
> 
> Be well, and take care of yourselves!
> 
> -Noé


	8. A Place to Gather Moss

And so, pensively chugging along for about an hour later, the train of thought deposited Ren outside a building that matched the postcode on his phone’s GPS. What was strange, however, was that the address on his Maps app didn’t list the café – and it wasn’t linked to a website detailing its business, either. Ren’s tired back shivered at the fleeting idea that his mum had deliberately given him the wrong address.

But sure enough, as he looked up from his phone he saw quite clearly the words ‘Café Leblanc’ arcing proudly in knightly gold letters above the building’s entrance. The door was a darkly polished mahogany, the top half of which had been carved away to frame a grapefruit-red paquened glass panel in lovely treen tendrils and stalks. The two windows orbiting the door were just as refined – large wings of arch shaped glass with wrought-iron curlicues in an abstract formation to protect them. The sills were lightened by bursting flowers that Ren was unable to identify as bouquets of peony and iris. Soft, evocative jazz sighed through the glass of the shop front, whilling through Ren’s knotted hair. It summoned murmurs of night-time suns; lace dresses and grenadine smiles.

Ren found himself curiously anxious as if his going inside might be perceived as a terrible violence against the sanctuary of the space inside. Ren shook his head; the journey, on top of everything else, must have really made him go crazy. He turned the smooth metal doorknob and stepped inside.

The café was spectacular; the airy insides of the locale presumed a vast size despite there only being room for four booths and as many stools between these and the bar. Everything was exquisitely designed, from the shining mirror ceiling to the rich burgundy carpeting. The cushioning of the booths exhaled solemn crimson; each a winning jewel in the crown of deep forest wood that, slow as smoke, curled up around the edges of the booths to underscore and reinforce their construction. Burnished gold-leaf curved lazily over the panels of the wood, drawing the eye to the luscious seats inside. _Come sit with us_ , they seemed to say. Insets of tastefully blurred glass a little above the backs of the seats heightened the intimacy of each individual space. The smoky quartz embers of the stained-glass wall lights took turns slow-dancing from ceiling to floor and back again. The bar itself was its own work of art, featuring similar golden curlicues on its panelling. Above the bar, behind the cafetières and colourful bags of rare and artisanal coffees, was a breath-taking mural. Framed by glittering green plants was a scene of a woman sitting in a throne-shaped tree, her auburn hair falling in billowing tresses from a knight’s helmet. She wore a long, fluttering tunic, the sleeves of which draped elegantly around the slim curves of her hands – the left holding a three-tiered sceptre, the right raised in the gesture of the blessing hand.

Her feet, rounded and pink and scalloped by pearlescent nails, hovered above a pair of golden crossed keys in the pastel grass below. The sky was streaked with blushing orange and regal pinks, but a clear absence of the sun made it impossible to tell whether the woman reposed at dawn or dusk. Her tree grew on a hill, and it was clear that the rabbits and deer, flowers and berries that circled her had come to pay pilgrimage to the light she exuded on the nature around her. Underneath the mural was the word “ _L’Hiérophante_ ” marked in the same gold lettering as the café’s name.

Ren was speechless. He stood by the door, taking it all in; he barely registered that there were customers in the booths or that a pair of sharp, bespectacled eyes was frowning at him from behind the bar. Ren realised that his arrival had been noted, and waited awkwardly to be summoned forth, or something. But the man behind the bar said nothing, watching the boy keenly as he wiped down a glass teapot. Ren was forced to make the first move – drained in both body and spirit, he shuffled over to the bar with his luggage held in his creaking arms so as to not sully the floor. It didn’t matter how tired he might be; making a good first impression was imperative. Ren shifted a stool back with his foot far enough to lay his suitcase across so that the wheels were in the air. Having done so, he wiped down his hands on his trousers and extended one to Sojiro Sakura, meeting the man’s flinty eyes with the flecks of steel in his own. “Hello, Mr Sakura. I’m Ren Amamiya; we spoke on the phone a little while ago. Thank you very much for opening your doors to me – my mother and I really appreciate it.”

Sojiro gazed at the outstretched hand, lower lip jutting out as if he was considering – or chewing on – something not altogether impressive. The kid was a criminal, that much he knew; no amount of earnest looks from the grubby teen could change that. To shake hands with him was detestable, but as host, caregiver; especially in the heaven he created, well – no, he would not be dishonourable. Sojiro took the boy’s hand into his own and, maintaining eye-contact, gave it two strong shakes. “Follow me,” he said, and begrudgingly began the ascent along the dusty stairs at the far end of the café. The boy followed.

Ren trudged up the stairs, bag once again in hand – Sojiro did _not_ seem like the kind of guy who would appreciate suitcase wheels scuffing anything in the café, even if these stairs looked pretty old. A few silent, heaving steps later and Ren was introduced to what was going to be his base of operations, his kingdom, his sanctuary, for the coming year.

It was filled with trash! It was clear that no-one had been upstairs for years. Eddies of dust swirled and tickled their ankles as the Ren and Sojiro moved into the room. Ren put his suitcase down and wrinkled his nose; it did not seem like a favourable time to mention his sensitivity to dust. Sojiro looked around and sighed, scrubbing at his goatee with that same chewing expression Ren saw downstairs. He turned, at last, and spoke to the boy:

“Listen up, kid. It’s unlike me to take in strays, but your mother happens to be an old friend of mine. You living here is me making good on a promise I made long ago.” He paused to rub circles into his temples. “That doesn’t mean you get a free pass to do whatever you want; you are not my guest, and you are not welcome here. I think people like you are despicable; to take advantage of someone vulnerable is just as – hm.” Sojiro cleared his throat and shook his head. “Well, let’s just say I don’t trust you, and for very good reason, yeah? So here’s the rules: First off, you will not come and go as you please; I come here to set up shop at seven and I lock up at ten. Those are your hours. Train comes late, you get mugged, whatever; if you aren’t inside by the time I turn this key,” He took out an ornate-looking, golden key and twirled it on his finger, “You’re sleeping on the streets. And if it’s past ten, don’t bother calling me – I’m not going to pick up. Second, your mother wants me to keep you out of trouble. You can bring friends to the café if it’ll keep you from sticking needles in your arm in an alley, but if I hear a _single_ complaint about you or any of your buddies from my customers, I’m sending you packing. Sumiko’s agreed to take you back if you cause trouble, and that goes for school and everywhere else, too. Keep your grades up and stay in line, or your holiday to the city is done. Lastly, I don’t agree with slavery; you won’t be getting any free money from me but if however, you would like to earn a few pennies after your classes you may apply for a job at Leblanc.” Hearing this, Ren moved to speak but Sojiro held up a hand and shook his head, “This isn’t a conversation, kid, and the job isn’t guaranteed, either – you better get into my good graces if you want me to give you an interview. Got that?”

“Yes, sir”, replied Ren.

“Good. One more thing: this is your room for the time being, which makes it not my problem. Piss in it for all I care; just keep your noise and your trash to yourself.” He must have seen Ren grimace at this, because his next comment was underscored by a smug eyebrow, “Oh, and if you want it clean? Clean it. Futon’s over there; go crazy.” Sojiro frowned, catching himself. “But not too crazy.” Satisfied he had laid down the law as firmly as was necessary, Sojiro put his hands in his trouser pockets, where they found a balled-up piece of plasticky paper. “Ah, yeah, almost forgot,” he said, tossing Ren the rumpled pamphlet, “You have school tomorrow. Make sure you get there on time.”

He left Ren to smooth out the booklet and decipher the address of one Shujin Academy. His mother had mentioned it before he left, but he really didn’t know anything about it. Was it a good school? The question seemed brutally stupid as he walked around the palsied mountains of garbage and dusty furniture, trying to get a feel of his new room. It was a lot to take in, and Ren felt a little overwhelmed, frankly.

Well, no sense in moping around. It was around 6 pm, and he still had some daylight left. He’d get started with some cleaning, and maybe ask Sojiro for some dinner in a couple of hours.

What else could he do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all - 
> 
> Happy to report that last week's promise was kept. You'll notice that Sojiro and his café (more so the latter in this chapter) are quite different from how they are in-game; I hope you'll take this as a sign that I'm writing this story to go beyond that of Persona 5, even though they share the same origin. 
> 
> I'm excited to hear your thoughts on this week's chapter! I had a lot of fun finding ways to describe Leblanc as I imagined it, and exploring why Sojiro might create a café so different from the one in P5.
> 
> Definitions:
> 
> Whilling - a word of no specific origin that means 'a gentle, breezy, separating action'.  
> Paquened - the correct word to use here would have been opacified, but I didn't really like the sound of that. It means 'to be made opaque'.
> 
> I am comfortable promising the next chapter's appearance by 8 pm GMT on Saturday, 25th of April. Please look forward to the conclusion of Ren's escapade in Dreamland then.
> 
> Stay safe, everyone :)
> 
> -Noé


	9. Raveyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Mentions of Sexual Assault
> 
> I ask you to respect this writing as a work that does not delight in abuse for the sake of shocking its audience, but rather as a way to explore trauma and the humanity of its characters.
> 
> If you think this chapter was tasteless or egregiously done, I am very happy to listen to what you have to say - this is my first public writing project, and I'm looking to grow - as long as your comments are civil and promote useful discourse of the subjects at hand.
> 
> That being said, dig in!

“Well yes, he’s letting it grow out… of course, it’s not my place to tell a grown man what he can and can’t do with his hair, but I’m really quite pleased. It reminds me so much of when he was younger. Such terrific curly hair – from my side of the family as you can tell, hah! His poor dad’s quite bald, bless him. He looks rather like a rock star, I think, and you know what they say – curls get the girls.”

Sojiro had just served Charmian, one of his favourite guests, a freshly roasted cup of coffee in her booth of choice. Tonight she looked like a gussied-up rain cloud, her glynnine grey hair framing bright eyes, an effect enhanced by the cobalt paint streaked over her lower lids. She was a couple of decades older than him at 66 years young, but her character was effulgent. A retired art teacher, Charmian professed a talent for discovering hidden gems on her walks – Café Leblanc was very high on the list, though Sojiro was yet to discover what was beating him out.

She cleared her throat before continuing; Sojiro leaned in, imagining she was going to say something valuable. Instead, she pointed a willowy arm behind him, “Sojiro, dear, that rather sad-looking ghost seems to want something from you.” He turned and was faced with a grey streaked and uncomfortable looking Ren, who mumbled something or other about do-you-have-anything-to-eat-please-I’m-hungry. 

Sojiro reacted with a grunt and the same hand gesture he reserved for swatting away flies before saying, “There’s some leftover curry in the fridge. Go see if you can warm it up; there should be a microwave somewhere upstairs.” He turned back to Charmian, trying to focus as the grubby spook behind him gurbed around in his fridge.

“Sojiro, you dark horse! I had no idea you were hiding a nephew from me,” began Charmian. 

“I don’t,” he replied, “Friend’s kid – just arrived. I’m helping them out by taking care of him for a while.”

The older lady cooed in her peculiar way. If Sojiro had been disrespectful enough to describe it, he might have said it sounded similar to a cat trying to hoot like an owl. “Well, how lovely! You must introduce him to me; he looks a very polite fellow.”

Sojiro sat down with her at the booth, suddenly tired. “Ah, Charmian, I don’t know...” He tailed off, wrinkling his eyebrows down as though meeting his jutting lower lip to his forehead might supply his mouth with the right words.

Charmian cocked her head, eyes lit with mirth above an affected frown, “Are you embarrassed about showing off an old bird like me? Sojiro, I’m surprised at you!”

He chuckled, “This shop wouldn’t be the same without you, Charmian. All of my regulars have a special place in my heart; you know that.” But he sighed as he said it. How could he explain bringing criminals into a heaven, especially when it was known that he vetted all who stepped inside? 

  
Charmian shook her head, smiling wide, “Well, I suppose the poor thing still has to finish unpacking - it looks like he’s been working hard cleaning up his quarters. But you mark my words, Sojiro – I will meet the young man someday soon, and I very much _will_ make him look at all of my paintings.” Her soft-sleeved elbow on the table supported the wrinkled fist that tilted toward the ceiling. The older woman tucked in her chin and raised her eyebrows at her friend. He nodded, albeit slowly.

But the conversation inevitably resumed and Sojiro was soon unbothered once again. How could he not be, at Café Leblanc?

Upstairs, Ren was eating a cold bowl of leftovers on an old futon. It grumbled and sank thinly down under his dusty limbs. The microwave – which the internet revealed had made its debut in 1993 – didn’t turn on. He throated the curry down with some discomfort, trying to ignore the irritation and the mucous garnishing the entire inside of his face.

Ren was tired, bone-tired, but satisfied that he had begun to make a dent in the piles of loam and dross in his new room. He supposed it was kind of fun –like unearthing a time capsule, sort of. This thought led quite naturally to the wondring of how a stranger might interpret Ren, and the weight of his entire life, maybe, if they were to liberate his old bedroom of his possessions. 

Thus, without realising it, Ren had lightly tapped over the steps leading up from the platform and boarded the train of whimsy which was all too happy to welcome him back again.

* * *

It all happened too quickly. Before fact broke through the film of alcohol soaking his brain, Ren stood pale-faced and shaking as the girls were whisked away by someone with a walkie-talkie. The youth with the nice arms followed nimbly behind. And, well, they vanished – but still Ren couldn’t move. His attention was on the man who had followed them into the smoking area. The man, the threat, the predator – squirming like a grub under the weight of someone bigger. His shrieks were incoherent, primal. Was he laughing? Ren couldn’t tell. A yellowed condom stuck to the man’s cheek as he scraped his face against the ground.

No-one noticed Ren standing stock-still, eyes locked on the man as policemen marched through the smoking area. He, too, was disappeared. Ren was alone once again. In the back of his swollen mind, he registered a strand of a thought, a whisper of a feeling. There was nothing to be gained from idling like an idiot. This place was nothing like what he expected. Times like these brought up an acrid reflux of gratitude in Ren’s mouth. He was invisible, and ugly, too. No-one came to check on him, and nobody would – as long as he kept to the shadows, he could ghost away unmolested. 

Ren drifted sombrely through the graveyard of Dreamland’s smoking area, wordlessly observing the spectres of laughter and ghoulish flirtation. Arriving at the back door, he cast a final glance towards the melting, unconscious wraiths knowing he would reel nothing in. And indeed, he didn’t. Twisting through the foetid danse macabre of the club, Ren passed deaf through the undead patrons that groped and grasped hungrily at each others’ spectral flesh. 

As he arrived at the abandoned reception hall, a winking light beckoning from his left made Ren pause. He turned, and behind a half-way open door labelled ‘Staff Only - Cloakroom’ he saw a skinny policeman scribbling away in his notebook in response to something said by his old group. They were all clustered together in the back of the room, where individually numbered coats waited listlessly to be returned to their owners. Ren’s chest ached suddenly; he wanted to hug them all. He hoped they could forgive him for not acting, for standing by, for failing to help. He hoped, too, that they could stay in touch. It would be nice to make some friends, though the likelihood of him seeing them ever again after the reckoning his parents would unleash upon him was slim. He went to step inside but was quickly intercepted in the doorjambs by a figure he hadn’t noticed. The watery-eyed fellow he remembered from the entrance of the bar began to speak. “Sorry, you can’t be here. If you want your stuff back, wait at the desk.”

Ren shook his head emphatically, hard-switching gears to communicate with the living, “I’m, ah, I don't – um – I didn't bring a jacket.” He pointed to the girls, saying, “Those are my friends in there. I want to say bye.” The dour blond pursed his fleshy lips, frowning at the darkling haint in front of him. He had better things to do than entertaining Dreamland’s drunks – like his job, for one. And yet… well, a quick litmus test: 

“What are their names?”

Ren shrank. “What?”

“Their names, kid.” The blond’s phone buzzed, and quickly stole his attention.

“I, um, I don’t know.”

A snort. “You don’t know your friends’ names?”

“I just – I – please. I just forgot. Please let me see them. I want to tell them bye.”

Ridiculous. The door was briskly shut in Ren’s face. He sighed and left the bar for good; Ren was unwelcome in Dreamland. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all,
> 
> Another week gone by marks another promise kept. 
> 
> We are so, so close to the climax of what I feel is the 'introduction' stage of this fic - or the laying of the groundwork necessary for the 'real' plot to begin. I hope you're as excited as I am!
> 
> Good news: I have a tumblr now! If you want to talk to me about this work or if you want to keep up to date with what I'm doing, please follow me at https://perfectlymarvelous.tumblr.com/. I'm looking to get more involved with the P5 community, so if you could follow me/point me in the right direction I would really appreciate it.
> 
> Definitions:
> 
> Glynnine - An word of no particular origin meaning 'unpretentiously noble/elegant; sincere'.  
> Gurb[ed] - A word of no particular origin meaning 'clumsily seeking/searching'.  
> Wondring - Taken from the verb 'wondering', clipped to turn it into a standalone noun.  
> Darkling - An existing word that means 'growing dark' here made to mean 'child-like, of the dark'.
> 
> I don't know what I can promise in terms of an uploading schedule - Uni starts up virtually again on Monday, and I want to take a couple of days to see how my routine changes. I will be uploading any news of this on my blog. If you want to stay informed about chapter uploads, please bookmark this fic or check my tumblr :)
> 
> That's all from me - have a good week, everyone, and stay safe!
> 
> \- Noé


	10. No Good Bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Sexual Assault - Please note that this will be the last chapter to do so for a while.
> 
> I ask you to respect this writing as a work that does not delight in abuse for the sake of shocking its audience, but rather as a way to explore trauma and the humanity of its characters.
> 
> If you think this chapter was tasteless or egregiously done, I am very happy to listen to what you have to say - this is my first public writing project, and I'm looking to grow - as long as your comments are civil and promote useful discourse of the subjects at hand.
> 
> That being said, dig in!

Ren began making his way to nowhere in particular; there was no way he was going home yet. The bruised purple lights of the gay district slipped stale over his sallow cheeks, but it was only when he reached the absent darkness at the end of those tired streets that he began to cry.

His tears were nothing special; small, nasty shards of grief strained out by a dog-tired heart. But they would be expelled all the same, so the lamed structure of his body did what it could to let them out.

Ren wandered the streets in conscious blindness, choosing his direction at random for every branching path. As he cried his hard, gross tears the cries of the girls in the smoking area haunted him. He had felt their fear, their abject panic, but he did nothing – and he _took_ them there. It was so fucking unfair that that happened to those girls; they had done nothing wrong. In less than a few hours of knowing each other, Ren had failed them in the worst possible way.

Another bend, another turn, another alley. Ren’s phone was long dead and he had absolutely no fucking clue where he was. The reality of the situation soughed into his bones. Well, shit – maybe disappearing for the night might make his parents inclined to leniency. Worry begets kindness, or was it kindness begets kindness? He thought he had read that somewhere. _Shit_. He had better find an alley to sleep in; he could deal with his parents tomorrow.

As he walked down a particularly eerie stretch of road, Ren heard an unpleasant plurophony of night-time sounds calling for him – a sawing grunt, a stifled yelp, a tango of stiletto heels clink-clacking on a stage of broken glass and wet pavement – all coming from a side street a little further ahead. Ren jogged quietly over to the source of the sound and peered hard into the ink of the alley-dark.

He saw a tall, broad man in a suit swaying over a woman backed into a wall. Ren couldn’t see much, other than a bald head, and thin plastic sticks curling over the ears – the man wore glasses. Ren couldn’t see the woman at all; only that she had long hair.

The man slammed his hand into the cold, slick surface behind the woman, dangerously close to her head. The man growled at her, saying, “What are you thinking, putting up a fight now? All you have is your body,” and Ren’s heart rattled against his ribs at an alienatingly fast pace. His phone was dead; he couldn’t call 119. Panic sprayed into his limbs like hot suet, swirling around his bones and pressing up against the inside of his skin. But oddly, it stayed there and hardened. Ren didn’t have much to live for at the moment, and shit – he _wanted_ to help.

He took a deep breath, girding callow tallow into steel – and stepped into the alley. His body a live wire, his voice shook as he shouted, “Hey, asshole! Don’t touch her.”

The suited man swung in place to turn to Ren – he was very, very drunk. The woman’s eyes passed emptily over the bald man’s face, shifting onto Ren. The pair stared at him for a while. Ren felt suddenly very out of place, but he pressed on, “Get away from her!” Inspiration struck as he held up his dead phone to the man, “I’ve called the police. Leave the woman alone; you have no right to touch anybody like that.”

The man made a low, puling sound. “Come on, Yua, stop wasting time and get in the damn car. I don’t want to deal with police tonight.”

The woman cast a look at Ren, now urgently hopeful. “I – I don’t want to.”

The suited man’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

She tried again, “I’m sorry, I just really don’t want to. Please, Mr Shido, you’re drunk. This isn’t like you; you’re a gentleman. Why don’t you go home and sleep it off? We’ll laugh all about it in the office on Tuesday – my brother gets funny when _he_ drinks, and we always laugh about it the next day –”

But the man called Shido was done listening. Drunk and ornery, he growled at the woman – Yua – and clamped down hard on her pale wrist, scraping her fingers against the wall. She whimpered, and the panicked desperation swelling Ren’s veins popped him into action. His first – and only – thought was to get that man away from Yua.

He sprinted towards Shido, sealing the distance between them and yanked forcibly on the man’s suited arm. Shido released Yua’s arm almost immediately, flailing wildly as the blind, scummy ground bore aloft a knife of greenbottle glass to meet his falling face.

Ren wasn’t wholly unfamiliar with the sound of tearing skin, deriving a mercenary kind of pleasure in bursting the scabby, seeping pimples that overran his nose and forehead. The sound, however, of the green glass scoring across the man’s leather-thin forehead made him shudder inside – it was as if the glass was scraping against Ren’s bones. The man named Shido roared and rose, muscling towards Ren as blood fell mercilessly from his face.

Suddenly, the wails of police cars approached the alley - someone in the buildings nearby must have heard the commotion and called for help. The sheer thought made Ren's fingers ached with relief - all he had to do was hold the fort a moment longer. Shido’s drunken demeanour, however, vanished. He briskly swiped the glass shard off the floor and cracked his neck. He pressed his bloody eyelids shut, allowing cold sobriety to flush into the streaming red gate between his eyebrows.

“Listen closely, girl,” he began, buttoning up the white shirt bloomed red and fixing up his tie. “You’re going to tell the cops that this little _gallavant_ sexually assaulted you and when I intervened, he slashed my face with that hunk of glass there. You will tell them,” he continued, slashing the palm of her soft hand with the glass and closing her fist around it, “that when I fell, he continued forcing himself onto you and your hand got hurt in the struggle.” Yua was silent, staring emptily down at the ground beneath them all. “Then you’re going to tell them that you’re concerned for my safety and that there’s nothing you’d like more than to go home to look after your wounded boss.” He paused, dusting down his suit jacket. “You know what will happen to you and your family if you don’t, right?”

She nodded, silent.

So as the police marched into the dead-end alley and shone their torchlights on the unbearable scene, Yua did as she was told – and Ren, snotty and surrounded by dust in Café Leblanc's attic, finally fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all,
> 
> Apologies for the long hiatus. I took a break for a while as I adjusted to my new virtual uni life. I did keep writing on and off, but I wasn't sure if I should post given that I didn't receive any feedback/criticism for the last chapter!
> 
> What this means, though, is that you get to enjoy a double upload! I'm very, very excited about the upcoming chapter; it is to my mind where the story *actually begins* - read on to find out what I mean. ;)
> 
> Definitions:
> 
> Plurophony - The opposite of monophony; that is to say, music with multiple parts. The 'correct' word to use here would have been polyphony, but I like the added discomfort of the letter 'r'.
> 
> Gallavant - Taken from the word gallivant, this word means someone who acts brash and pseudo-heroically.
> 
> I don't know if I will have a new chapter on Saturday as I have exams to prepare for, though I will be writing through the week. If you like my writing and want to see the next chapter, please let me know! The second chapter in this double upload will join this one in a couple of hours :). 
> 
> That's all from me, everyone; stay safe and be well.
> 
> -Noé


	11. Deus In Machina

Ren’s eyes blinked open, mind still slowly spinning from the lull of sleep inertia. It was dark; he couldn’t see the ceiling above him. The gently curling air in the room made the space feel cavernous around him. He stretched, wondering how it could be possible that he woke up _before_ his alarm, but as his fingers trailed up and around his body they felt the sweet blush of petals underneath. He let his fingers spread calmly into the bed of flowers beneath him, feeling an incredible hardiness to the plants despite the softness of their petals; the gauvey bults of the densely woven florid mass did not yield to his weight. The way the flowers held his limbs and nuzzled at the exposed skin under his pyjamas was utterly blissful.

Ren took a deep breath and let the rosen aromas of the flowers nurture his nose. Images of prison bars and entrapment that Ren hadn’t realised he had been holding in his mind dissipated viciously, making him gasp. He shook it off and stood up, noticing how relaxed his muscles felt. Looking around, Ren saw that he was not in his new room at all, rather in a small, teardrop-shaped chamber ridged and rounded off like the inside of a giant peach seed.

He scratched his head. Obviously this was a dream, but why a literal bed of flowers? Was it supposed to be a pun on ‘flowerbed’? As Ren reached to feel the textured wall of the space, the gristled peach-pit flesh in front of his hand morphed to read, ‘ _Not a dream!_ ’. Ren frowned. Perhaps a lucid dream, then? The letters shifted meatily to read, ‘ _Nope!’_

Ren was fully awake now, and more than a little worried. The whirring cogs and whistles in his brain began to run their tests – Where was he? What was happening? Was he safe? What brought him there? What should he do? But again, the letters muscled into a new shape, ‘ _Why don’t you turn around and find out?_ ’ Ren turned quickly around to see that there was a new opening cut into the wall of the chamber; a slim, perfect rectangle through which winking, glittering mauve mists waohed.

Clearly, if this wasn’t a dream – a possibility Ren had not fully ruled out – the situation he was in was one over which he had little control; whoever, or whatever, was pulling him out of the peach pit room was something that could read his thoughts and control the environment. Ren was somewhat reassured by the thought that if he was wanted dead, he would be dead already – unless the unknown entity behind all of this sought to toy with him. Ren stepped tentatively into the cloudy corridor.

He walked for what felt like an eternity, watching colourful gems and geodes of all sizes slowly emerge from the ground and walls of the rectangular corridor. Eventually, most of the passage’s surface was covered in crystals.

When Ren arrived at the other end of the corridor, the veins formed by the long processions of crystals followed, culminating in a sevenbranched sunburst of crystal colours decorating the entrance of the corridor. He ran an admiring hand along the vivid, pristine gem formation, enjoying the cool feeling against his fingertips. A glassy cough behind him whirled Ren back into focus. Ren found himself in a large, dome-shaped room along the floor of which the mauve mists rolled. Minerals and sparklers dotted the velvet carpeting of the floor. There was a single carmine light at the dome’s peak, blessing the room with burgundy hues and obscuring the far edges of the space. In the middle of the room, there was an elegantly polished oak desk skewered by an enormous pink stalagmite of a hand in a cupped posture, puncturing it with grapefruit radiance. Sitting on the tilted desk there was a life-sized statue of a young man not much older than Ren pared from several shades of glittering crystal. Its head, the top of which was carved into fabulously coiffed curls, gleamed coyly in Ren’s direction with chin rested on lovely glass hand.

Ren let his eyes absorb the statue’s beauty, gazing with awe at the way the ruffles of its sleeves shirred at its arms; how its smile displayed an arousing vulnerability without a hint of distress. Ren felt a tingling, curious feeling on his face – one that told him he should summon sorrow to his eyes so that he might daub the statue’s cheeks with living tears.

The statue waggled its eyebrows at Ren. “Well?” it said, the grin on its face spreading deliciously. It raised its shining arms and gestured to the room around them, “What do you think?” Ren wasn’t altogether shocked by this – in fact, he was more alarmed by the fact that the statue’s animation _didn’t_ surprise him. The weird room, the flowers, the crystals dotting the floor; it made a statue coming to life feel commonplace, frankly. Ren met the statue’s eyes, opting to be polite, “Well, it’s a very nice room. I like the crystals. You did a really good job with, um, them. I also slept very comfortably, so, thanks.”

The statue looked grimaced at Ren as though he smelled bad, so Ren continued, “So, um, who are you, if that’s ok to ask?”

The shine in the statue’s eyes ignited, and it leapt up to stand up on the desk. Its hair and clothing fluttered with its movements as if it were real hair, real silk. The statue leaned forward at the hip and shook its open hands towards the ceiling as a huge neon light reading, “ _Misto!_ ” in pink cursive sailed down above its outstretched arms.

“Welcome to the Velvet Room, Ren; I’m Misto! Congratulations – I’m your new narrator! How _exciting_ for you… My goodness, I’ve been waiting for you for the longest time.”

Ren frowned, confused, “Um, how do you mean?”

“Don’t worry too much about it, sweet thing; the long and short of it is that your story had a _terrible_ ending; there was this awfully contrived plot point where – well, all that doesn’t matter now! Just know that you wouldn’t _exist_ without me; I’ve given you _life_ , so – you’re welcome.”

Misto closed his eyes and sighed, delighting in the theatre of the moment before continuing. “You see, sweet thing, I know _desperately_ what you need, and I have the power to bring it to you.” Misto jumped off of the desk, twirled in the air, and swooped down to hover before Ren. Ren’s heart couldn’t help but thrum at the crystal youth’s proximity; he was breathtakingly beautiful.

Keeping his eyes on Ren, Misto pressed his fingertips together above Ren’s face and traced a circle in front of him, his fingers separating at the apex only to embrace again at its nadir. Ren watched as Misto’s fingers shed a faint mauve trail. Once complete, lucent fractals scalloped down the circle’s inside like rime spreading along an ice cream spoon. The fractals shimmered suddenly and turned to a cloudy, pastel pink.

The image of a handsome young man with brown, shoulder-length hair appeared on this new screen. He seemed to be deeply preoccupied with something, scribbling busily in a notebook surrounded by brown manila files. He appeared to be of Ren’s age, though he was dressed in an argyle vest and a tall collared button-down. Ren’s heart ached wonderfully to look at him; he felt very much that the boy’s gently sloping eyes tended towards a numinous kind of grief.

Misto began to merrily narrate, “Now, sweetheart, there’s a _boy_. He’s hurting terribly, terribly – he’s been set on a very dark path, you see – and the way things are going, he will die.” Ren’s eyes snapped to Misto’s face; his gemstone eyes bled sombre concern.

“A grave situation indeed, my heart. You must keep your chin up all the same. You see, you can _save_ him.” Misto extended his glittering arms around the vision of the ill-fated youth to lovingly stroke Ren’s arms.

Ren let out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. “Misto, I’m just a guy; what could I do to help someone set to die like that?”

Misto luwelled down a comforting smile, “You must love him, sweetness, _fall_ in love with him. I sense deeply the strength of your heart. If you show him tenderness in just the right way, you can deliver him from the evils of his past.”

Hearing this made Ren’s scalp prickle uncomfortably. “I just, I don’t know – I – there’s so much going on already; with Sojiro, my mum, and – listen, I’m a mess! I can’t even save myself, let alone someone else. I’m sorry, Misto. I don’t think you really know me.”

Misto giggled, though not altogether unkindly. “Darling, I know everything!” His eyes shone purple on the final word, lending a deep emphasis to his declaration. After a moment’s ponderation, Misto dove under the crystal screen and swam up right in front of Ren’s face – close enough to kiss. Ren trembled, gazing through Misto’s deep crystal flesh to see the faint ghosts of the room’s furnishing on the other side.

Misto took Ren’s face in his slender, glittering hands, silently soothing the boy’s temples. Ren could feel his qualms diffuse under Misto’s touch; the crystal entity was gentle, motherly. Misto’s crystal hands were warm, too; without even realising it, Ren found himself nuzzling into them.

When Misto spoke again, his voice was low – sweet and treacle wise. “Ren, when was the last time you were happy? And I mean truly, perfectly happy. Do you remember the last time you felt understood, seen? You’re _miserable_ , Ren. You don’t have friends, your parents hate what you are at your core, and the entirety of Japan thinks you force yourself on girls to get your kicks.” Misto paused to give Ren a grimacing grin, “Which in this climate – you know.” Ren gave Misto a snuffling laugh, who continued, “This boy is your destiny, my little love. Loving him, being loved by him – it _will_ save you. All the suffering you’ve endured won’t matter ever again. You have the chance to experience joy in the rarest of forms, but more than that, sweetness; you have the chance to be utterly, utterly at peace. Isn’t that what you want?”

Something unlocked deep in Ren’s chest as he listened to Misto’s words. He felt like a heat-bleached marble fountain feeling cool, rushing water through its tiers and basins for the first time in a generation. Though timid, his voice took root in Misto’s Velvet Room, “Ok. Yeah, I’ll do it. I trust you, Misto.”

Misto sailed through the air around Ren; his entire crystal body glowed gold, “Oh, wonderful!”, he exclaimed.

Dizzy from looking at the spinning crystal boy, Ren asked, “So, what should I do? Like, where do I find him?”

Misto finished twirling and drifted to a stop in front of Ren, further away this time. “Oh, sweetness! Just be your adorable self – don’t worry about the meet-cute. I’m more than happy to accept the role of Belladonna, lady of situations.” Misto snickered gaily at his own joke, showering Ren with opaque delight. “Oh, but don’t forget this!” he uttered, extending his hand in front of the confused youth.

With preciously bent wrist, Misto’s index, ring, and middle fingers melted together like candle wax. The mass of fingers turned a deep, night blue at the centre, a colour that quickly bled down to the tip of Misto’s hand and stayed there. This new coagulation seemed to become heavier, too. Where the second knuckles used to be, the fingers thinned as though a girdle were being cinched around them – all the while the crystalline glob stretched at the tip, funnelling itself into a fat, inky teardrop. With all the sleight of hand of a magician, Misto deftly plucked a nacreous button from his crystal outfit. After a new button manifested onto his clothes with a _pop_ , Misto crushed the one in his hand, refining the pearly shards by grinding with his thumb against his other four fingers.

He carefully sprinkled the sparkling remains of his button onto the rapidly growing meltment of his other hand. The globule welcomed the silky particles, sucking them greedily into itself as quickly as they fell upon its wobbling membrane. Ren watched as the shining powder shimmered and soared deep inside the teardrop, sketching chimeric star forms and galaxies through the murky crystal. 

Inevitably, the teardrop vacillated and broke away from its host. It sped swiftly to the ground, but Ren, who was horrified to see a work of art perish so soon after its inception, lurched to shut his palms around it. He succeeded and felt the tepid, pulpous mass harden and cool in his hands almost instantly. When Ren opened his hands again, he saw a bottle of nail polish shaped like the twisting, spherical finials at the end of an ornamental curtain rod. The colour was a deep royal blue, with pearly white flecks suspended in the dark liquid. In thin, gilden letters circling the top of the bottle were the words ‘ _Moonlit_ _Magic_ ’; it was exquisite.

Misto batted his eyes at Ren, “There you go, my sweet. Keep it safe, now; those little bottles don’t come cheap!” Misto giggled at himself. He continued, “Make sure you put that on before you go to school tomorrow.” Ren examined at the bottle in his hand, feeling thick varnish mup against the glass as he tilted the container. He frowned and looked up at Misto, “Oh, well – does the Shujin academy even let students wear nail polish?” The crystal boy raised a skelping eyebrow at Ren, who cleared his throat awkwardly. He clarified, “Well, I’ve never worn nail polish before, and I don’t really want to get in trouble with the teachers. So, you know.”

Misto fluttered the concern away with a lofty hand. “If you hate it, take it off – but it _is_ your colour, by the by.” Ren nodded. Misto yawned quite suddenly, his voice curling down the octaves like a cat sliding spryly down a bannister. Stretching his arms up in an almost burlesque display of exhaustion, Misto prostrated himself in the air and drifted motionless back to the desk where he had made his introduction. The preciously thin crystal fabric that clung to his body began to undulate from a warm, unseen breeze. Settling onto his side on the urbane surface of the desk, Misto closed his eyes and spoke drowsily, “That’ll be all from me, sweetheart. How very exciting for you... your grand romance is utterly close by. You’ll be good, won’t you?” Ren didn’t get the chance to reply before Misto’s torpid muttering advanced. “Yes, wonderful. Well, you had better get to sleep, my little love. You have school in the morning.”

Misto went silent. Without warning, Ren’s strength emptied brutally, hollowing him like a puppet. Still clutching the bottle of nail polish, Ren tumbled flaccidly to the ground; his snifting snores the only sound fraying at the perfect silence of the Velvet Room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitions:
> 
> Gauvey - soft in an irregular, non-uniform way  
> Bult - An unidentified clump or mass  
> Waoh(ed) - A word of no particular origin that means relaxed, leisurely drifting around an area  
> Luwell(ed) - To share something generously/soothingly  
> Meltment - Something molten  
> Gilden - Something that has been gilded or gives the impression of gilt  
> Mup - To swirl/swish thickly
> 
> ~
> 
> -Noé


End file.
